out to snare him. Now he was caught up in a grip that bound
him like iron and there was no way to break free. It was pointless
to say anything to the others of what he was experiencing. After
all, what could he say that would have any meaning-that he
was frightened, even terrified? And what, did he suppose, were
they?
A gust of wind shook the water-laden trees and showered him
with droplets. He licked the water from his Ups, the moisture
cool and welcome. Coil was a bulky shape immediately ahead,
Morgan another one behind. Shadows danced and played about
him, nipping at his fading courage. This was a mistake, he heard
himself whispering from somewhere deep inside. His skin
prickled with the certainty of it.
He had a sense of his own mortality that had been missing
before, locked away in some forgotten storeroom of his mind,
kept there, he supposed, because it was so frightening to look
upon. It seemed to him in retrospect as if he had treated every-
thing that had gone before as some sort of game. That was
ridiculous, he knew; yet some part of it was true. He had gone
charging about the countryside, a self-declared hero in the mold
of those in the stories he sang about, determined to confront the
reality of his dreams, decided that he would know the truth of
who and what he was. He had thought himself in control of his
destiny; he realized now that he was not.
Visions of what had been swept through his mind in swift
disarray, chasing one another with vicious purpose. He had car-
omed from one mishap to the next, he saw-always wrongly
believing that his meddling was somehow useful. In truth, what
had he accomplished? He was an outlaw running for his life.
His parents were prisoners in their own home. Walker believed
him a fool. Wren had abandoned him. Coil and Morgan stayed
with him only because they felt he needed looking after. Padi-
shar Creel believed him something he could never be. Worst of
all as a direct result of his misguided decision to accept the
charge of a man three hundred years dead, five men were about
to offer up their lives.
“Watch yourself,” he had cautioned Coil in a vain attempt
at humor as they departed their warehouse concealment.
“Wouldn’t want you tripping over those feet, duck’s weather or
no.”
Coil had sniffed. “Just keep your ears pricked. Shouldn’t be
hard for someone like you.”
Teasing, playing at being brave. Fooling no one.
Allanon! He breathed the Druid’s name like a prayer in the
silence of his mind. Why don’t you help me ?
But a shade, he knew, could help no one. Help could come
only from the living.
There was no more time to think, to agonize over decisions
past making, or to lament those already made. The trees broke
apart, and the Gatehouse was before them. A pair of Federation
guards standing watch stiffened as the patrol approached. Pad-
ishar never hesitated. He went directly to them, informed them
of the patrol’s purpose, joked about the weather, and had the
doors open within moments. In a knot of lowered heads and
tightened cloaks, the little band hastened inside.
The men of the night watch were gathered about a wooden
table playing cards, six of them, heads barely lifting at the arrival
of the newcomers. The watch commander was nowhere to be
seen.
Padishar glanced over his shoulder, nodded faintly to Mor-
gan, Stasas, and Drutt, and motioned them to spread out about
the table. As they did so, one of the players glanced up suspi-
ciously.
“Who’re you?” he demanded.
“Clean-up detail,” Padishar answered. He moved around be-
hind the speaker and bent over to read his cards. “That’s a losing
hand, friend.”
“Back off, you’re dripping on me,” the other complained.
Padishar hit him on the temple with his fist, and the man
dropped like a stone. A second followed almost as fast. The
guards surged to their feet, shouting, but the outlaws and Mor-
gan felled them all in seconds. Par and Coil began pulling ropes
and strips of cloth from their packs.